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There are moments in your life that are so supremely comical that you could almost believe someone is scripting them.

Picture this: a small group of Neo-Black Panthers are staging a demonstration complete with a crate podium and megaphone on a busy metropolitan street before a crowd of looky-loos. I’m happily on my way. At the exact moment the men invoke the sobriquet “White Nazi Devils”, I — blond, blue-eyed, 6’2” — happen past, the entire assemblage turning to look at me like I just sauntered in out of central casting, prompting me to simply shrug in mortification as if to imply “Sorry?…”

Utterly embarrassing, but even I have to admit it was hilarious.

Even if you don’t have your ear to the political ground, you have to have noticed that Nazis are everywhere lately, to the extent that I’d actually bet that they’re invoked more often in political discourse than even Al-Qaeda or the Taliban. Health care, civil rights, financial reform, secularism — the fuckers are behind it all. They’re such over-used go-to villains that they’re practically on par with vampires. As gays, you find yourself becoming so inured to being equated with Nazis (I can understand how tough it is for Middle Easterners and the terrorist anchor around their necks) that it starts to roll off your back. Middle America just loves casting us as encroaching shock troops out to stage a Christian Holocaust. Still, it’s easy to overlook how interwoven — in some ways imposed upon us, in other ways not so much — the Nazi aesthetic is embedded in gay culture. That image of buff, swaggering, Teutonic-looking guys with shaved pates and copious tats is pretty ubiquitous, meaning somewhere along the line we adopted and reinterpreted the brand upon us. Villainy can be such a perverse turn-on in its way, and the antagonism of oppression is such that its friction inspires a certain erotic hostility.

In the end, Nazis — be they authentic or subliminal, accurate or campy, implied or inferred — are pretty rod-inspiring despite the, y’know, genocide and forced labor, so while we’re not exactly proud to present you with some of our guilty, guilty pleasures, here are our favorite Inglorious Bastards in no particular order:

Anton Diffring

Few actors made a career out of playing Nazi evildoers like German Anton Diffring did. Movies like Where Eagles Dare, Counterpoint, and The Blue Max showcased his chilly, imposing persona to fine effect, and there’s no denying that his patrician handsomeness and silky presence — his eyes truly were unearthly in their hypothermic blueness — were straight out of Hitler’s wet dreams. Tall, fit, and radiating cunning intelligence, he worked steadily as more of a heavy/character actor than a leading man proper, and he had to privately marvel at the irony of his career trajectory. In reality, Diffring had fled Germany prior to the war because he reviled the tide of fascism. A gay man, he was actually forced into an internment camp in Canada for the entire length of the war, proving the best movie villains are essayed by kindly actors who draw on wellsprings of personal pain and suffering.

Dirk Bogarde

Let’s put this on the table: if you had to be held in a concentration camp, wouldn’t you want your captor to be a movie star-handsome dreamboat with great hair? That’s Dirk Bogarde in The Night Porter — a tale of transgressive love that manages to blend arthouse with sexploitative trash. Thinking man’s sex symbol Charlotte Rampling survives the Holocaust, only to find that camp guard Bogarde — her former tormentor/semi-protector with whom she had a torrid love affair while in his thrall — is now working as a night porter at the Vienna hotel she’s staying at. Fetishistic nastiness ensues. Seductive matinee idol Bogarde, also gay, has it going on here, and he had actually served as an British intelligence office during the war, an experience that reportedly made him loathe Germans to the point that he couldn’t even bear to be near one. The Night Porter’s significance in pop culture is twofold: not only did it kick off a trend of Gestapo-themed grindhouse flicks like Ilsa — She Wolf of The S.S., Salon Kitty, and Nazi Love Camp, but it arguably brought S&M couture aboveground into glossy fashion spreads and the gay club scene. Efficient.

Sybil Danning

OK, so I put one chick on the list, but the gays love drag queen manques, and Sybil Danning is a woman so formidable that she has an honorary dick. Hey, she had a werewolf threeway with a hot Latino guy and the chick who had a baby with Mick Jagger in Howling II, so color me envious. The Austrian bombshell was a cable mainstay during the ’80s, gracing epics like Nightkill, Jungle Warriors, and Young Lady Chatterly II. When I first beheld her bionic rack as a child in Hercules, it inspired a combination of awe and terror that’s hard to relate, and I vividly remember my crazy uncle having her pin-up in the garage where he housed his cheesed-up corvettes. If you were a woman, wouldn’t you want to be able to suffocate men with your breasts and snap necks with your thighs? Danning was born to be Arnold Schwarzenegger’s ideal leading lady, but mainstream Hollywood just couldn’t deal with her glamour. Nonetheless, she’s so perfect and authoritarian as the wicked warden in Reform School Girls that Martin Borman himself would jizz in his pants and call her “mistress.” Often photographed in jack boots brandishing guns or riding crops, the frighteningly Aryan Danning could easily level Poland with a single tit slap.

Alfredo Castaldo

I like ‘em short, built, and butch, so you can imagine my glee upon discovering the bounty that is Alfredo Castaldo. Ignore the Spanish nom de porn — Alfredo, also billed equally inaptly as Carson Cane, is one hundred percent Hungarian beef. If you’re fan of Hungarian gay porn, then you know the typical look it employs: brunet, sculpted, gymnast-bodied. Alfredo stands out from any cookie cutter cast by virtue of his (usually shaved) red hair, freckles, thick-set no-neck physique, and phenomenal muscle ass. He started out for Csaba Borbely in jock-themed entries, graduating to wrestling and military fare. Decked out in camo and a beret and wielding a machine gun, he’s the picture of a stoic, hairless test tube baby-turned-storm-trooper, especially when he’s pogoing on a stiff dick with honor. Post-Borbely, Alfredo seemed to falter and began turning up in rough gay skinhead titles like Punks & Skinheads and Skinhead Sex Club. Clearly, typecasting’s a bitch.

Edward Norton

The running joke when American History X hit theaters was that producers should’ve just called it American History Sex because many gay men and a whole lot of hetero women were ready to shed their panties for an amazingly bulked-up Edward Norton. All endomorphic, skull-razed, goateed, and pec-tatted, Norton’s roided-out transformation is nothing short of stunning. And you have to shake your head at the folly of the whole White Supremacist movement: outside of the movies, none of these guys exactly scream genetic superiority. Norton’s glowering, marble-fleshed behemoth certainly has to typify the physical wish fulfillment for a class of belligerent rural white males longing for a bygone past in which they were in their glury days, blaming minorities for their diminished role in the world — weirdly, none of them willing to entertain the notion that they’ve fallen by the wayside precisely because they’ve failed to adapt to a changing social spectrum. It’s evolution, baby.

Jesse James

Cheating dickbag. White trash scum. Odious manslut. Nazi grease monkey. Jesse James is all of the above, but by Odin’s beard, the man is molten hot. Looking like a Viking berserker who’s been time-warped into a modern age where he can no longer practice his strengths of raping and pillaging, it’s not hard to grasp why the man either leads troubled women to utter ruin or drives away those with poise and grace. Much of James’s apologetic self-mitigating seems to hinge on him beseeching “Dude — I’m totally not a Nazi!,” which would be slightly more believable were it that he didn’t immediately present as a tatted-out, knuckle-dragging good ol’ boy willingly photographed in a Gestapo hat in mid- “Heil!” salute. The prison cellmate of your dreams, James is undoubtedly a helluva ride and will surely continue his life’s work — fathering towheaded progeny, banging skanks with iron eagle tattoos, denying the Holocaust, and hitting the road upon his chrome and rubber steed — undaunted. But, Jesse, please say it just one time for us with sincerity: “I vaz only following ze orderz!”
Vern Schillinger

Oz was more than just the series that blessed us with enough naked man chained heat to cast twenty Raging Stallion DVDs — it’s hands-down the greatest fucking gay show ever. Ass-raping, drug abuse, prison romance, shivs, Chris Meloni’s cavernous cleavage — Oz took risks and never jumped the shark. One of its greatest assets? The utterly vile leader of the Oswald Aryan Brotherhood known as Vern Schillinger, essayed by J.K. Simmons, an actor who single-handedly breathed life into a character so wholly repellent that mainstream TV could’ve never accommodated him. Simmon’s Nazi bastard wasn’t just an incredible dick — he actually looked like a giant erect rod, and even more contemptibly, the bastard actually fancied himself a great guy. Every actor on the series figured that he was going to be filmed in the raw at some point, and Simmons — initially paunchy and doughy — pulled off quite the make-over, metamorphosing into a pumped-up muscle monster. Sure, you found yourself screaming “Get that prick!” every time he managed to wriggle out of his just comeuppance, but admit it: that Nazi scum had one fine ass on him.

Yor — The Hunter From The Future

If you eugenically crossbred blond-tressed supermen Flash Gordon and He-Man, then the hard-body title character — described in one of my favorite reviews as “extremely blond” — from the delirious ’80s schlock epic Yor — The Hunter From The Future would be the result. Here we have a primal Aryan fantasy gussied up in ropey Eurotrash lost world adventure and goofy Star Wars knock-offery. In a Frazetta-style pagan landscape populated by saurians and primitive tribes, white-as-Wonderbread Reb Brownis Yor — the loincloth-clad hero searching for his destiny. Blond, body-waxed Yor just doesn’t fit in amongst the lesser people composed descendingly of weak-willed brunets and hominid ape-men, and there’s a reason for that angst: you see, Yor is a member of a higher race of fair-skinned, highly-evolved future people marooned in time, and so the ridiculous fantasy of a lost valley of mythical whites (the Aryan Nation’s answer to Eden) is realized here — all of it perfectly accessible at a third grade comprehension level for Cletus, Jim Bob, and Cousin Dad alike.

Nicky Crane

Ah yes, Nicky Crane — the British arch Neo-Nazi/closet case whose Uncle Tomery made even the likes of Chris Barron and Ken Mehlman look iron-spined by comparison. Standing on the forefront of the skinhead-championed British Movement during the ’80s, Crane rose to infamy as both a far right political agitator and punk music scene hanger-on. Implicated in multiple racially-motivated assaults that terrorized London, Crane — sneering, often stripped to the waist, aggressively ripped, and looking like he could pass for the third member of Right Said Fred — for a time had his cake and ate it too, enjoying the London gay nightlife while running with his gay-bashing mates. In 1992, he finally gave up the ghost on live TV — The Sun ran the headline “Nazi Nick Is A Panzi” within days — and it was subsequently revealed he had been featured in underground gay skinhead porn in the ’80s. Crane succumbed to AIDS within a year, his BM brothers having abandoned him. Still venerated as something of a folk hero in certain circles, this is the guy that foaming-at-the-mouth Social Conservatives invoke when they want to cast us as vicious, diseased thugs in wife beaters.

Robert Shaw

Before James Bond became a tuxedo-clad mannequin and his franchise degenerated into a live-action cartoon, the earliest Bond films were notable for their sex, violence, and tense plots — From Russia, With Love arguably the best of the lot. It takes a lot to make the eye stray from an in-his-prime Sean Connery, but seriously babe-like Robert Shaw as Donald “Red” Grant pulls off the unthinkable. A low-rent mook recruited by criminal syndicate SPECTRE and remodeled into a baby-blond, psychopathic killing machine, Grant is the embodiment of the emotionless Nazi super-soldier, at least on his face. Seeming to feel no pain even when he’s nailed in the abs by brass knuckle-wielding keeper Rosa Klebb, Grant is still at heart a common goon with pretensions of supervillainy and a bleach dye job — a cutting debunking of the unattainable Germanic superhuman fantasy. The tension between he and Connery’s upperclassy secret agent — both sexual and class-conscious — is Bond at its bristling best.

Justin Theroux

I’m really not prone to hyperbole: a movie like Charlie’s Angel’s: Full Throttle is the cinematic equivalent of having to sit through a slumber party populated by the most inane teenage girls on the human record — nothing but actresses who couldn’t fight their way out of paper bags in real life hurtling through the air, dumb and flaccid men standing on the sidelines, and insipid stabs at lame-assed comedy that cause your eyes to roll back in their sockets. One only aspect — one aspect — of an otherwise irredeemable dud like this shines through: the slap-yourself, Jeebus-he’s-fiiiiiiine presence of the ultra-studly Justin Theroux as an Irish Mafia hooligan heavy. Sporting a faux-hawk, Dracula hairline, suspenders, cryptic tats, skinny-guy jeans, combat boots, and a coiled switchblade of raw muscle physique, Theroux is channeling the spirit of Nicky Crane here. Striding forth from the flames with a glower of unruly menace, he’s as mesmerizing an incarnation of Neo-Nazi swagger as I think I could ever imagine. I’d like to play at my own variation of The Night Porter with this bitch — Alpha Gay versus Totalitarian Punk in a battle royale that starts out shaking the very foundations around us and ends with brutal, vengeful, teeth-baring sex we’re not likely to survive.

“I have a shit load of fans out there who know better. After all, who invented verbal porn?!” – Jon Vincent

By his own admission, you could call Jon Vincent a lot of things: sex fiend, manipulative hustler, revolving-door junkie, anabolic casualty, errant hubby, absentee father, porn trash, heedless good time guy, and trash-talker supreme. But a has-been? Even at his lowest point, he knew better.

With the curtain seeming to come down on the era of the Porn Kings and the Land of Smutdom, you’d be harried to name any current star who inspires the same cultish adoration and hushed reverence in the manner that Jeffrey James Vickers‘s alter ego Jonny V. does. Though the teeth-gnashing, hole-obliterating motherfucker appeared in only a relative handful of otherwise lackluster flicks — there’s really no name-defining epic like a Powertool or Big Guns in the mix — he stands on a pillar of immortality that Falcon’s or Titan’s five-years-ago big names never reach. Ultimately, the same fateful cocktail of character flaws and grim life experiences that made him an inveterate drug addict synchronously (and troubingly) made him a mythic sex star.

His posthumous biography A Thousand & One Night Stands chronicles a life marred by frightful Laura Palmer-esque childhood sexual abuse, a subsequent adolescent lack of fear response combined with money-minded hypersexuality, a parade of wives and keepers who could neither redeem nor abide by him, a narcissism manifested in pumping his physique up with anabolics, an almost monstrous sex drive, and a lifetime of comebacks in athletics — his other natural-born gift he betrayed — used up by the time he was twenty-two.

It was Nightcharm’s 2005 entry on Vincent that confirmed his enduring presence in the gayosphere and exposed a cult of priapic acolytes (incidentally, nailing me a writing gig based on a comment I made), triggering not just the most voluminously enthusiastic four-years-spanning response the site may have ever received, but the most mind-bending range of assertions, everything from fond reminiscences about his movies and personal anecdotes from his johns, to moral hand-wringing from people claiming to be his loved ones and a theory that his 2000 death was actually an elaborate hoax.

You can scroll through the litany, but we’ll save you the time and give you our front-runners:

“I grew up down the street from Jeff Vickers/Jon Vincent in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He was 2 years older than me and used to bully me when I visited his next door neighbor who was my friend. He was always very aggressive, which totally turned me on. I can remember fantasizing about him while I jacked off in junior high and high school.”

It’s the plasticity and hollowness of nine out of ten porn stars that limits their humanity and condemns them to 2-D oblivion. It’s practically impossible to picture, say, Matthew Rush or Zeb Atlas reading or even eating, but it was Vincent’s playful, tactile mortality that translated best in his scenes and set him apart.

The final scene in which he’s serviced by Matt Gunther features my fave of his myriad of dumpster-mouthed lines, any of which would sound ridiculous coming from anyone else. As he half-growls, half-moans “I didn’t think I was gonna get any. Oh, but I am! I’m reeeeeaaaalllly scoring now!” while grinning like the cat that ate the canary, you get instant insight into what a natural wordsmith and performer the man was, so far removed from the dispensable potted plant kind of star who has to obviously be prodded off camera with a yardstick or guided with a laser pointer in order to speak or even emote. Vincent’s appeal stemmed from the reality that he truly was that older prick-teasing jock who we all wanted to put out for us, and his skill at simply being can’t be scripted or coached from the sidelines.

“Jon was, stated simply, the best. I hired him three times to ‘take me to heaven’ while he was living in Los Angeles. He fucked me like a hungry animal and reminded me how good it is to be alive. Iâ€™m grateful to him for all he contributed to the industry and to ‘daddy-hungry’ bottom boys like me.”

This is why porn stars are so much more exciting and alive for us than a Hollywood crush: most can be attained at the right price, and their celebrity has a certain inviting and willing freakishness to it. Nicole Kidman‘s marble bat-brow or Ryan Reynolds’s Hydroxycut waist could never give me the quivers in the same way that standing next to Colton Ford on the subway or crossing paths with Caesar would.

For all they get (over) paid, can any legit star ever really give their all in the way Jon did when he uses his good ol’ boy chicanery to convince half the cast of his 1988 debut Heavenly to suck him off and spread for him, or when he emitted that grizzly roar after he (apparently, spontaneously and accidentally) blasted in Joey Stefano‘s mouth, causing the only bottom to truly match him pound-for-pound to lob his load back at him in a gesture of nasty-boy petulance?

Fuck no.

“I think Jon Vincent reeks of instant hard-on. I was young and virginal when I saw him on video in a baseball uniform. I wanted to go to my knees, kiss his feet and beg for him to humbly take my cherry. Ruin me. I would have sold my pretty boy looks on the street & humbly gave him all my money, to be his submissive for abuse.”

True porn stars — the cognomen “star” is so overapplied it’s in danger of losing all meaning — are magical. Not only are their auras dazzling, but objects they possess or even touch become fetishes. Clothing, photos, and even body hair can be purchased via their web sites.

A few years ago, I happened to be in one of those ultra-tacky novelty stores staffed by EMOs to pick up a lava lamp bulb. I had a moment of supreme weirdness when I spotted Vincent’s mug on the packaging for chintzy thong underwear five or six years after his demise, treated like one of those generic hard bodies they use in gag greeting cards. It was poignant and exploitive all at once, and it’s the most concrete evidence I’ve ever witnessed of how little control porn stars have over their own images.

I had an acquaintance who was mad about everything vampire-related, and he intimated to me that his ultimate get was to own the dimestore fangs Vincent sported in the awful gay sucker flick The Bite, wherein Vincent works over and bastes frequent co-star Rob Cryston in a pine box. When it comes to our sex gods and gay saints, everything about them is periapt.

“I am the wife of Jeffâ€™s son and the mother of his grandson. What you fags are doing is disgusting and immoral. You should be ashamed of yourself. We know who all of you are and all of you are going to pay for this one day. Jeff has a beautiful grandson and it upsets me to think that you butt pluggers are talking like this about his grandfather.”

This elegant, tea-baggish statement from a crazy bitch troll says it all. The Lindsay Lohan-type of celebrity is not unlike a debilitating disease, and the real test of fame is not the healthy worshippers you can attract, but the lunacy you can inspire in wack jobs who think they have a personal connection with you as you decay in a fruit fly’s rapid-time degeneration.

James Dean had his Night Watch crew, among them the Black Madonna Vampira, who claimed she could commune with him via a telephone connection to the spirit world after his fade-out. Michael Jackson had his Bird Woman as the most memorable of his coterie of cooks, and upon his death, the majority of my night class was absent for a “day of bereavement” for a man they never even met and would certainly have shrank from in an instance of any real intimacy.

Vincent had a cast of characters in his life that ran the gamut from wealthy benefactors and hit-it-and-forget-it nightclub tarts to junkies and fellow porn bad boys, and the man burned bright and briefly. Just four years after hitting the blue movie scene, the wear was evident on his face in 1992′s Idol Thoughts — which found him playing third banana to Ryan Idol and Tom Katt — and by the year of his death, his last movie Porn Fiction found him looking haggard-eyed, hollow-cheeked, and on his last leg at just thirty-seven.

The only C I ever got in college was on an art history paper in which I likened Andy Warhol‘s Marilyn to the celluloid devolution from glamour girl icon to death’s head specter, and the cunty professor can suck it now, because nothing could be more apt in describing the neon-lit, track-marked doom of Jon Vincent than that.

“I dare you to entertain the fact that he is not dead. Jon Vincent, his alter ego, is no longer with us, but Jeff Vickers the MAN, still very much is! I saw him at a Family Dollar in the city where I live in October 2007.”

Elvis. Big Foot. The Loch Ness Monster. Compassionate Conservatism. They’re all modern-day myths and urban legends that people are convinced might or still exist. In a better world, all porn stars would be well-taken care of in the world’s most action-packed retirement community, and the fantasy of Jon Vincent alive and happy in blissful anonymity is the guazy form of anodyne even a cynic such as I finds himself wanting to entertain. Maybe he faked his death, quit the biz, and made a real show at sobriety. Today, he could be the mechanic, construction worker, or high school football coach of your dreams. Did he pull an Eddie & The Cruisers-inspired vanishing act? Is there Zapruder-style camera phone footage of him loping about some quiet ‘burg? Can we clone him using a lock of his hair? If the stars are right, maybe — maybe — the hot-ass UPS guy will have a familiar drawl and grin all pervy-like when he tells me he has a package for me that’s too big for him to handle alone as he addresses me as “son.”

You know you’re a media-obsessed moviephile when you watch gay porn and dig the sets.

It used to be that actors and directors were the ones to watch when it came to mainstream crossover status; now, the sets themselves are turning up in big legit products and later getting outed in all their if-these-walls-could-talk iniquity.

The Age of Porn Creep is such that an Academy Award-nominated movie like The King’s Speech could be lensed on a former jizz-spattered UK Naked Men set. Even pop stars like Lady Gaga and Beyonce find themselves seating their royal asses in locales once occupied by bare-assed gay porn stars. How long before a glitzy Hollywood epic and its downmarket porno double filled with lookalike tableaux and stars simply opt to divvy up their shooting schedules between day and night?

The digital era has changed porn just that much — not just how it’s made but where it’s made. Yes, the sex acts themselves are still highly-contrived and intricate, but porn is losing some of its theatrically in terms of actual production value. I’m one of the rare people who’ll admit to liking the artifice of studio-produced porn over guerilla amateur porn; I like the idea of a movie about sex. The days of fuck flicks being filmed in tiny movie studios and outdoor lots — often converted from warehouses and even grocery stores — is dwindling. Today, a typical porn shoot takes place in otherwise mundane flipped private residences, known in the industry vernacular as “porn houses.” Usually, these are owned by producers or directors, or lent out to crews by private management companies on a film-by-film basis. They tend to be fairly easy to distinguish for the keen-eyed viewer; a generic rent-a-home will have a blandly anonymous showroom look, while a director’s domicile will often boast a disco ball, headache-inducing day-glo paint, a Gay Interest bookshelf, and an immense painting of Cher circa Moonstruck looming over it all.

Only one question remains: with the trend for prefab cookie-cutter gay porn production in full swing, which elements of old skool all-male action shoots will adapt to the new standard, and which will fall by the wayside like a flimsily painted backdrop?
On Location, Location, Location

I’m sensing that the heyday of the big, lavish, star-studded gay porn epic shot in some far-flung locale may be waning. Everybody has their faves like Sailor In The Wild, Heat, Catalinaville, or The Other Side of Aspen. The reason they’re starting to seem like something from another time: outsourcing.

With more gay porn productions moving over to Eastern Europe for the talent pool willing to work for less, we’re still likely to get plenty of Prague- and Budapest-set entries like Umberto, Umberto: A Young Man’s Sexual Awakening, but comparatively less domestic-produced product where the set is essentially a beach, the mountains, or a ski lodge — all of it requiring permits and work visas for models flown in from all over the world. Even gloriously fakey indoor jerry-rigged sets made up to look like barns or camp sites aren’t nearly as common today as they were back in the ’80s. Overlit sets that could pass for soap opera living rooms and boudoirs are everywhere. And that makes me sad.

Rinse & Repeat

Anyone else noticed how prevalent bathrooms have become in gay porn? I don’t mean public restrooms — I’m talking fucking gigantic private baths that you could stage a Maria Montez bathing sequence in with enough room for several handmaidens, a Nubian palm frond waver, and an ocelot. Wealthy people are obsessed with having immense bathrooms with ornate tile and brass fixtures, so all of these cookie cutter luxury porn houses have them.

One of my all-time favorite movies is Cowboy because it has such perfect visual context — sex in a cabin, sex on an outdoor table, sex on a tractor, Caesar getting banged from behind as he clutches the ladder of a hay loft on stilts that looks ready to topple, and an excellent threeway between bald guys in a shower that’s way too nice for the white trash plotline. The cabin the movie was shot in was owned by actor-turned-director Blue Blake, who later sold the property to Modern Family actress Julie Bowen. Bowen was so in love with the tiling in particular that just prior to the property exchanging hands she held a dinner party and played the DVD for her gal pals, telling them to ignore the three skinheads sucking dick and marvel at the bathroom tiles she’d scored.
That’s awesome.

Fluff ‘n’ Fold

The Fluffer.

Supposedly, this is a total myth that gay porn viewers have perpetuated among themselves: the notion that there’s a guy or guys on set who are there for the expressed purpose of sucking or cranking off the talent to keep them hard between shots. It is pretty hilarious to picture some muscle diva sitting in a canvas director chair between takes, selecting an underling from a line-up, and commanding the Eve to service him. Are they paid? Do they volunteer like interns? Most industry insiders will tell you the idea is ridiculous, and we can probably assume that with porn taking a big economic hit as of late, if this position ever did exist, it’s been phased out as a luxury.

The division of labor on a gay porn set is not as defined as you might expect. Models will often lug equipment, hold boom mikes, operate lights, and even act as cameramen. Actors are game to fluff each other, and directors are also amenable to lip-locking on a rod for the sake of their art. Models have confessed that sometimes directors can get carried away and ignore their warnings that they’re about to pop off, resulting in more than a few loads ending up in their mouths, making the ingenious fake cum shot — employing shampoo or dish soap generally — a necessity.

The Corner of Dope Street and Desperation Blvd.

I’m just gonna say it, because we all know it’s true: no real city street or alleyway can ever compare to what a gay porn set dresser can dream up. The graffiti’s never as good, the steam emanating from manhole covers never as effective as a smoke machine, and the trash cans are never as perfectly placed. In my dreams, I don’t live on a tree-lined suburban street or in a fashionable gay ghetto. My fantasy block has an all-night garage full of ex-con mechanics, a porno theater, a psychic, and a biker bar — my apartment a noirish pre-war walk-up tinged with the light of neon signs outside.

Alleys are hotbeds of sluttony in gay porn flicks, and with good reason, given the anonymity and thrill they provide, and since you only have to worry about running afoul of a Cruising-style killer in real life, that’s gold. If gay porn’s veracity can be trusted, then metropolitan alleys across the nation are replete with dirty cops, bartenders, off-season bodybuilders, tomcatting hubbies, and virgin college students just waiting to drop trou. Why, it’s downright unwholesome watching Tom Katt get pounded atop strewn-about newspapers in Alley Katt. The incredible Ass Lick Alley features Jason Branch and Black Harper gettin’ it on in an ingress complete with a clothesline, humpy Bruce Hill eagerly watching from an adjacent window, the whole scene backdropped by the type of depthless scenery you’d find in an 80′s sitcom. Is it so wrong that I want to be part of the epic fuck train composed of both staff and patrons who piledrive open-all-night Spike atop a discarded mattress outside of a restaurant in Gangbang Cafe?

Talk about scenery-chewing!

Fire Walk With Me

It’s a real turn-on learning that a porn movie is lensed in a real setting. Someplace you could really go to — maybe a resort, bar, sex club, or gym.
Or maybe a firehouse…

Part of the thrill of watching something like the Playing With Fire series — the definitive fireman flicks for me — is knowing that not only was the first installment shot in a real firehouse, but that director Thor Stephens neglected to tell the man leasing it to him that he was directing a porn flick there. When the man saw the parade of men entering the building, he immediately turned to Stephens and deadpanned “Gay porn, right?,” at which point Stephens came clean.

Candidly, I have to admit finding the idea of a No Homo setting like that being hard up for money and reduced to letting gay porn directors rent out the space by night to be ridiculously hot. Could the firemen ever fully grasp that Ty Fox and co. were collectively cranking shaft in the communal shower? Could they appreciate Billy Herrington’s muscle ass cheeks being pressed up against their fire truck for hours at a time? Would it change everything for them if they beheld Steve Cassidy clinging on the back of it for dear life as his ass gets tenderized, causing him to utter the immortal line “Yeah! Rape my hole Chief!”?
Because I think that constitutes landmark status.

There was a time when the portmanteau term “cumshot” wasn’t a fixture in the English lexicon.

Before mass media forms made us intrinsically self-aware of our appearances and physical prowesses, it’s doubtful the male climax carried the visual wallop it does now. More likely it was internalized — regardless of the sexual pairing — and not subject to the self-direction and theatricality that it is now.

Porn forever changed how we have sex. Thanks to the visual medium of sex, we’re aware of how to frame, position, and pace the act. Certainly the bulk of our sexual fantasies are staged just like fuck flicks, with awkward transitions edited out and big finishes lensed at ideal angles in the porn shoots of our minds. That’s not necessarily wholly bad or good; it could be argued that porn has created unrealistic expectations and a glut of camera-fetishizing narcissists, but I can say it helped me figure out exactly what I want, who I want if from, and how I want it.

It’s not enough to just hit the mark anymore — you have to time the big finish, choose what body part you want to land it on, and really deliver a gusher of a crescendo. The element of performance — of offering a bravura turn — now preoccupies us. I remember seeing a stand-up act on TV in which a comedian related how everyone in L.A. was an aspiring star; when he stopped at a gas station, even the attendant told him he was an actor, and he knew exactly what sort when he finished pumping, pulled out of the tank, and proceeded to spray all over the windshield.

The money shot is so centralized in porn — it can be faked and often is, with hetero porn now making the effect ridiculously cartoonish, and I have to admit that female ejaculation is freakin’ incredible to behold — and because of that import, pretty much every man secretly wants to increase his volume to epic proportions.

Even though fertility isn’t an issue for us on the magnitude that it is for hets, I suspect that there’s still some mental linkage on our part between quantity of ejaculate and the ability to effectively father progeny; even in strictly corporeal terms, the greater the quantity, the more protracted the contraction of the muscles that propel it, and that’s a good thing.

So realistically, are there any effective measures you can take to boost your output, or is Nature the greatest constraint that can’t be overridden?

The Lovin’ Spoonful

Here’s the thing: we all want to erupt like it’s the last day of Pompei, but porn basically selects genetic sore thumbs and passes them off as a norm. Your typical male is going to produce one to two teaspoons of man batter, with slight variations occurring thanks to diet, age, general fitness level, and hereditary design. Naturally-occurring amino acids are posited to help increase output to a reasonable degree, but the effect is usually a higher sperm count than an augmentation in your gentleman’s relish.

Most people are regularly dehydrated, so a regular influx of fluids combined with a steady regimen of physical activity can help, and certain nutrients like L-arginine, L-lysine, zinc, lycopene, and lecithin (which in particular will help increase clear liquid volume in your pop shot) found in the fatty tissue of animals and plants can give you a leg up. Leafy vegetables, nuts, fish, turkey, spinach, tomatoes, and almonds are good sources, and if you’re a vegetarian or vegan, that gives you some alternative options. However, if you’re a hot slut who’s already in-shape, not hopped up on caffeine, has a healthy blood pressure, and aren’t partying yourself into the ground, you’re probably at the peak of your prowess and don’t need to take any further measures whose effects are likely to be minimal for you anyway.

Sound of Thunder, But The Rain Don’t Cum

Commonly referred to as Edging, Injaculation is a natural, painless, and cost-free way to up your flow when the dam finally breaks. I can personally attest that this works. It’s all about delaying orgasm by controlling your muscle contractions when you’re near to topping off; this will result in a series of “dry” or “mini” climaxes (I’ve gone as high as twenty to thirty depending on duration) in which you get the feeling of blasting off without actually letting loose. As you delay, the amount of your load increases to maximum capacity, building and building until you release in a heaving torrent.

Awwwww yeah.

How do you do it? Simple: the Stop/Start Method. The pelvic muscles you use to urinate are the same ones you use to ejaculate. When you urinate, focus on halting and releasing your urine stream multiple times. After a month you’ll start noticing changes in the intensity and volume of your man cream tsunamis. It’s much easier to fine-tune your system when you’re not in the act rather than worrying about it while you’re in the heat of the moment. This will benefit you across the board. I can essentially time my climax down to the second, stave it off at will, and my refractory period has lowered, meaning I’m ready to come back for more at a faster rate. Best of all, once you’ve mastered the technique, it becomes automatic and you don’t have to preoccupy yourself with thinking about it ever again.

Spare The Rod

We all know that porn stars will save it up in order to really release the Kraken when they’re on film, and holding back works just as well for us amateurs. Volume and intensity will augment from storing up the population paste. There’s no hard and fast rule as to how much you’ll benefit from giving it a rest, but if your goal is to super soak your special someone and really make an impression, it’ll help.

Propulsion can often be just as visually and psychologically satisfying as the quantity of your payload, and being able to bullseye a dartboard from across the room never fails to impress. It’s a common method employed for couples with fertility problems because ideally it results in a higher sperm count as well. Dick doctors claim that if you lay off for two to three days, it’s just as effective as doing it for a week, but again, every man is different, and I can personally say some down time works wonders for me. After a week, I’m shooting myself in the face; after two weeks, I have to shower afterward because I look like I got bukkaked by a construction crew and put away wet.
The Drugs Don’t Work

There is no miracle pill that can enlarge your dick, and no, I can’t believe the countless brands of semen enhancement products will augment your money shot and intensify your orgasm either. Nutritional supplements of all varieties tend toward being useless bunk, and volume pills are at best likely to contain the same vitamins you can derive from food, so you end up paying anywhere from forty-five to three hundred bucks for mail order supplements like Semanex, Vimax, and Maxocum (!), which is a waste. The fact that the human body can’t even process much less even need the massive amounts of vitamins flooding the market means the incredible ingredients contained within these volumizers will be shooting out of your dick all right, as in right into the toilet when you urinate.

Cumshot King Peter North is certainly the gold standard in nut busting, long been surmised to employ something that makes him spray like an alley cat. He’s shilled for an array of enhancers that are purported to be the secret of his success and will kick up your money shot by five hundred percent, but any product endorsed by porn stars or douchebags crowing about becoming bitch magnets should have you giving it the side eye.

Just the manner in which these jizz pills are marketed is enough to put you off; ads featuring blonde chicks panting in front of a guy’s groin, boxes exclaiming “Contains Pure Horny Goat Weed Leaf!,” and winning slogans like “Engulf Her With Semen!” had me laughing out loud during my research for this piece, and damn if I could find a single one that wasn’t aimed exclusively to a straight demographic. Virtually every scam ad disguised as a medical review for these all-natural, doctor-approved placebos reads like it was written by a horned-up eighth grader. “You’ll blow the BIGGEST load of cum she’s ever seen as you shoot wave after wave of semen!”

Fuckin’ A! Now I too can satisfy all the nympho cum sluts in my life — like a real stud should!

Ten Life-Altering, Awe-Inspiring, Must-See Gay Porn Cumshots

10. The eye-opening, barn-splashing geyser delivered by Marlboro Man Clint Benedict in Bike Bang.9. Scott Bondunloading like a tube of toothpaste onto Nick Romano‘s ready and willing face in Object of Desire.8. Doin’-hard-time Raul Tascobasting himself like a Thanksgiving turkey after working over cellmate Jake Marshall in Slammer.7. Barrett Longbustin’ all over greedy boy toy Kurt Wild in Barrett Long’s XXX Amateur Hour 6.6. Conner Habib getting sprayed with Girth Brooks‘s and Colby Keller‘s fire hose-worthy loads like he’s a burning building in Laid-Off.5. Lippy pig Gino Colbert opening wide for Mike Lamas‘s — and half of the cast’s — gushing cannons in Big Time.4. Tristan Jaxxshooting like a nicked artery all over a stunned and delighted Josh Weston‘s face in Fleet Week.3. Towering trash-talker Tony Valentino force-fucking muscle slut Jim Slade in the back of a Hummer and delivering a showstopping blow-off right into his mouth with a golden cascade of cum that would make Rapunzel herself envious in The Bouncer.2. Paul“The Geyser”Morgan earning his rightful nickname by letting fly with a teeth-gritting cum spattering — overacting hilariously as he cracks up his three onlooking co-stars — before doing it again seconds later with zero editing in Chained Heat.1. Spike getting his shaft cranked by Billy Herrington — who looks at the camera with wide-eyed WTF?! astonishment — as it proceeds to erupt in a fall-out-of-your-seat fountain of set-dousing spurts that would make even the Brawny Paper Towel Guy give up on his life’s work in Billy Herrington’s Body Shop.

Sweet-faced, young jock Jason lied to his parents that he was going camping with friends. Instead he flew to L.A. and shot this scene for our Club Jeremy Hall theater. Naughty boy! He works his considerable cock while Jeremy fucks him with a clear, ribbed dildo that hits the spot just right. Watch now and don’t bust him to his folks!